The 6 Stages of Grief
by 221t-TARDIS-St
Summary: They say there are six stages of grief, each playing an important part to recovery. Grief, given to a person after a traumatic event: A person that cannot be fixed in a heartbeat. John Watson would happen to be one of these people. Not exactly Johnlock, but can be implied. T because I feel like it.


**Chapter one: Shock and denial**

"_**The tears I feel today,**_

_**I'll wait to shed tomorrow.**_

_**Though I'll not sleep this night,**_

_**Nor find surcease from sorrow.**_

_**My eyes must keep their sight:**_

_**I dare not be tear-blinded.**_

_**I must be free to talk**_

_**Not choked with grief, clear-minded.**_

_**My mouth cannot betray**_

_**The anguish that I know.**_

_**Yes, I'll keep my tears til later:**_

_**But my grief will never go." **_

― _**Anne McCaffrey, Dragonsinger (Pern, #4)**_

Coarse, tanned fingers run across the sleek wood of the Stradivarius, brushing over the strings and the small sound of the cords ringing through his ears and around the flat. Running his hand over the neck, he breathes out slowly, the only sound in the room besides the friction on the violin. The small sliver of light peeking through the hole in the curtain- caused by an old experiment to do with acid- paints itself over the dark wood. The hand flicks away an imaginary speck of lint, hovering in the air before the hand settles back onto the violin. A sigh breathes out of cracked lips, a flicker of a tongue to dampen them. He pulls his hand away, the instrument still in the exact place it had been left when it was last played. The desk it rests on has not been changed, a perfect image from the past few days. And so, he moves sluggishly across the room, sitting down in the worn arm chair, staring across at nothing-or at least nothing now.

The figure he has been searching for is lost, crushed onto a pavement and 5 feet under. A simple, blunt thought that echoes through John Watson's mind. His damaged mind, and shattered heart. He places an elbow on the arm of his chair, leaning a bristled cheek on his knuckles to support his weary mind. His tired eyes, forever searching the empty seat in front of him. He knows it's empty, and he knows it can never be filled like it was, but that won't stop him from searching. Blank eyes dart along the grey chair, an imprint of the past owner slowly rising back to the shape it once was. All he can do his hope that his eyes will land on the tall, lanky figure, pale hands holding the Stradivarius to his chin, and plucking the stings between nimble fingers. He wishes to hear the sound of a personal piece, a lullaby, a piece of Bach, an angry screech-anything. Just as long as it comes off that violin, and is played by that one person.

But never again can it happen, and John knows this. So it has left him with the only thing he now knows-grief. And the only thing that can follow is the first stage. Shock and denial is the most common and the first emotion to possibly to happen after something like this. And it has already affected John. Numbness has overtaken him. All he now does is sit in a chair and stare at the silent flat. No sound enters his ears, no thoughts enter his mind. He watches the seat in front of him for what seems like minutes, when in reality it is a few hours. He doesn't move from the numb feeling that runs through his body. It keeps him in the same place, afraid of moving. Afraid that if he moves and leaves, he'll come back and he would have missed his chance. Because deep down he believes that he's not dead, he knows he has to be alive. But that won't convince him. It can't convince him. He knows what has happened; he saw it with his own eyes. And besides the fact those eyes have seen far worse does not mean it can change that.

So he sits and waits in the same place, numb from head to heart. And as he sits, he can't help but drift off into sleep, weary from the days he has spent in that chair. His head resting on his hand begins to waver, and he struggles to keep his head up. And soon, his eyes have closed and he's snoring deeply. His head falls to his shoulder, and he breathes in deeply. It was probably for the best, stopping the thoughts from entering his mind. Stopping everything all together. To stop the question that is nagging its way back to the surface of John's cold composure.

The only thought that does would be the same picture over and over- an explosion of colour, but always the same. A red wash over raven curls, wrapped in a blue veil. Always the same, never changing. The same emotion, the same fear. And it makes him confused. Confused on what has happened. Confused that his friend. His only friend could do that to him. Even in his sleep all he can do is wonder. Wonder that one word, and how it is so small, yet it can mean so much.

_**Why.**_

Why did it happen? Why would he do this to John? To all of them? Why would he lie to him? Why would he take himself away? Why did he have to move in with him; why, why, _why? _It's a simple enough request, to get an answer. He deserves an answer anyway .Just something that could spike his hope. . A reassuring phrase, something to tell him why it happened.

The nightmares never last long, in John's mind anyway. For the time which can be a few hours will be minutes, even seconds in his mind. He can never tell if it's a nightmare or not. The same image is so real, unable to understand. A constant reminder to him. Like finishing a chapter of a book, but having to read it over and over to understand what it means. Except it will replay in John's mind, even if he does understand.

He calls his name and then he's jolting awake, sitting up in his chair as he brings a hand to his chest, like his heart would beat its way out. He takes a few gulps of air, trying to get his breathing under control before he can't help himself. His shaky breathes turn into laboured blows of air which in return become shattered sobs. The hand on his heart moves to his face as it hangs limply to his chest, chin digging into his skin-like he could hide himself away. The sobs rack through him, tearing his composed position to shreds.

John Watson is a broken man. He needs to be fixed, brought back to life. He needs to be stitched back together, a life needing a purpose. He had once lost his purpose before, and then it was pieced together by the sociopathic man. This time, it cannot be mended. This time, he's not coming back to save him.


End file.
